Once upon a time, there was a bargeman upon the River Ruin, whose mind was a nightmare. So pessimistic was he, that he believed he lived in the worst of worlds. One day, the bargeman stood aboard his coal barge as it was tugged up the river by a team of oxen.

"Woe unto me! Wifeless and childless, goldless and luckless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The coal price is on an all-time low, and my barge is in need of expensive repair work. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.

High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The barge sank. The bargeman swam for his life, as did the rest of his slaves that could swim.

"Woe unto me! Bargeless and dryless, hatless and coalless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The coal is on the bottom of the river, and my barge is gone. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.

High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The ropes attached to the sinking barge pulled the oxen into the river. The bargeman's slaves tried to rescue the draft animals, but drowned along with them. The bargeman swam on.

"Woe unto me! Slaveless and oxless, hopeless and propertyless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The oxen drowns, and my slaves are dead. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.

High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The coal floated to the surface of the water, and ignited. The river boiled. The bargeman was scalded and cooked.

"Woe unto me! Healthless and skinless, lifeless and coldless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The coal burns, and I am boiled nigh to death. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.

High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The bargeman's scalded body was picked up from the river bank by roving Hobgoblins and was eaten alive for dinner. For such is the fate of those who would not count their blessings, and despairs too easily.

- The Bargeman and the Misfortunes, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* Note the repetitive style of this fable. It is common in Chaos Dwarf literature and folk culture.

Once upon a time, there was a volcano of fire and smoke that towered above the plains below. One day, a storm cloud passed by upon shrieking winds and announced its power to all the world:

"Behold me and tremble! My body blots out the sun and swathes the land in darkness. My hail cuts down the harvest and lay the fields bare. My lightning bolts melts sand to glass and flesh to cinders. I fly wherever I like, for no shackles in the whole world can bind me in one place. I am become akin to a god, for nothing can stand before me!" thundered the storm cloud.

At this boasting, the volcano let loose a roar from the depths of the earth. Lava poured forth, rocks rained down upon the shaking landscape, and tons upon tons of ash shot into the sky, polluting the storm cloud and drowning it. Thus the elements of air and water were dominated by fire and stone. Henceforth, the storm cloud was branded by the volcano, for its body had been soiled by ash and its downpour had become acidic with the stuff of volcanoes. For there is no power on earth mightier than that of its fiery depths.

- The Storm Cloud and the Volcano, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* Similar stories, focussed upon natural elements, minerals, geology, tectonics and volcanoes, are common amongst both uncorrupted Dwarfs and their fallen Chaos Dwarf cousins. They are often without any apparent moral lesson, yet informs the world view of Dwarf and Chaos Dwarf children alike. To the Dawi Zharr, fire and lava holds great significance. Hashut in His guise of the Great Firebull thunders through the molten underground, and volcanic eruptions are ascribed with much portentuous meaning.

Once upon a time, there was a wise Sorcerer-Prophet, who lorded it over his followers and judged their cases on his own. One day, he granted audience to a condemned criminal who pleaded for mercy to escape his own execution tomorrow:

"By Hashut's hoof. Have mercy upon me! It was poverty alone that made me steal that loaf of bread. Change my punishment and I will serve you fully for the rest of my life," begged the condemned, on his knees.

"Very well, so be it," replied the Sorcerer-Prophet and rose from his throne.

"You are magnificient in your wisdom, o lord!" praised the condemned.

"Indeed. Execution to be carried out in advance," declared the Sorcerer-Prophet and chopped off the condemned criminal's head on the spot. For such is the fate of those testing the patience of their superiors.

- The Condemned and the Sorcerer-Prophet, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* The moral of the story is also 'be careful what you wish for'.

Once upon a time, there was an untrustworthy Nasty Skulker from the Blue Tooth tribe. One day, he was captured by the rival Goblin tribe known as the Bull's Eye. The Nasty Skulker was dragged before the chief of the Bull's Eye.

"You will die most painfully, git. For we will eradicate the Blue Tooth to the last Goblin," growled the Bull's Eye chief.

"No, not me! I'll do anything to survive. I can help you!" shrieked the Nasty Skulker.

"Then open the palissade for us during the dead of night. Do not raise any alarm, and you will be rewarded with a magic knife that seeks out the victim's heart by its own cunning," replied the Bull's Eye chief.

The Nasty Skulker wanted that reward, and set out to cut the ropes binding the palissade together. Half night he toiled whilst the other Blue Tooth Goblins slept, and he nearly broke his back pulling up the wooden poles from the ground to open a gap in the wall. At last he was finished, and the Bull's Eye tribe stormed the Blue Tooth camp and killed every one inside. When the massacre was over, the Nasty Skulker crept up from the shadows.

"You won big time thanks to me. I want my reward," demanded the Nasty Skulker.

But the Bull's Eye Goblins seized him and dragged him before their chief, who held the magic knife high.

"Here is your reward," said the Bull's Eye chief, and stabbed the Nasty Skulker in the heart in order to eradicate the Blue Tooth to the last Goblin. For such is the fate of thouse who would betray their tribe.

- The Bull's Eye and the Blue Tooth, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* The moral of the story may also be interpreted as 'treachery will punish itself'. Despite greed and ambition, Chaos Dwarf caste society is based upon blind obedience and unasking loyalty to the leaders. Treachery is a thing for Greenskins, utterly beneath the Dawi Zharr, at least if you do not count the scheming elite. Note the intelligible Goblin speech, at odds with the real version. Greenskin fables such as this are normally filed under 'animal fables' by Chaos Dwarf scholars, since Greenskins are viewed as little else but savage beasts.

Once upon a time, there was a greedless man with an axe. One day, when wandering to an outpost, he rescued a captive from vile Greenskins, and was offered all that which the captive owned:

"Here! The Greenskins robbed me of everything but this hidden pouch. There are ten silver hooves in it. Take them, you have deserved them!" insisted the rescued captive.

"Keep them, lest you will starve. I do not need them," replied the greedless man.

After that, he wandered on towards the outpost. But when the greedless man came to a narrow gorge, his path was blocked by a mad Fimir hermit.

"Fifty silver hooves! Cluck! Fifty silver hooves! Moo! You will pay fifty silver hooves to pass, or I will bash in your skull," frothed the mad Fimir and raised a giant bronze mace.

"But I have only forty silver hooves... Damn!" cursed the greedless man, and was mashed into gory pulp by the mad Fimir hermit. For such is the fate of those who would lack greed in their weak hearts.

- The Helpful Man and the Mad Fimir, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* Greed is a virtue in the Dawi Zharr mindset. To the Blacksmiths of Chaos, greed is proof of a will to dominate and a craving for more, a drive for conquest and toil. Meek helpfulness and lack of greed are viewed as serious character flaws.

Once upon a time, there was a Chaos Dwarf and an Orc who competed with each other over who could build the best idol for their respective god. On the one hand, the Chaos Dwarf chiseled and hammered and polished and carved day and night, in order to erect a statuary image of Hashut in hard stone. On the other hand, the Orc ate and drank and slept and soiled himself day and night, in order to build a stinking effigy of Gork out of his own worm-infested dung.

One day, the heavens let loose all rain, and a flash flood hit the two idols. On the one hand, the Chaos Dwarf's well-wrought stone idol withstood the waters and shielded him from their fury. On the other hand, the Orc's dung effigy was flushed away by the waters and toppled over the Orc, drowning him in his own droppings. For such is the fate of those who would craft objects shoddily and out of feeble materials.

- The Orc and the Chaos Dwarf, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund

Once upon a time, there was a gold and an iron ingot laid close to each other. One day, the gold ingot spoke:

"You must envy me, iron," said the gold ingot.

"Why, gold?" asked the iron ingot.

"Because my shimmer and sheen is sought after by gods and mortals alike. They adorn themselves with me, they measure the value of things by me, they fight wars over me. Not only am I pretty, but my beauty is eternal. I will never rust, unlike you. You are only good enough for tools, arms and nails of the crude folk, iron," boasted the gold ingot.

"Melt me down and recast me, and the rust will be gone. But no matter how many times they melt you down, your strength will never be such that it can challenge me. In every incarnation, I may cleave and crush you at will, but you cannot do likewise against my hard body, gold," replied the iron ingot.

At this the gold ingot had no good answer to give. For the value of things lies not in their vain looks alone, but in their strength and function. Thus wealth may be measured in iron ingots and gold ingots alike.

- The Gold and the Iron Ingot, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund

Once upon a time, there was a slavedriver who was miserly yet weak of heart and will. One day, his thralls rose up against him in a wild rebellion. They overmanned the slavedriver and shaved his prized beard, tore off his ears and cut off his nose, toes and fingers before they impaled the Chaos Dwarf and roasted the man alive.

When the slavedriver's shackled soul stood in front of the Father of Darkness to face final judgement, the fiery Bull God deemed him and his life's deeds to have been worthless indeed. The slavedriver protested:

"But, highest one, all my life I have offered adulation and bloody sacrifices in both fire and molten metal. I have practiced all the correct rites without failing and I have done so in sight of your mighty idols, just as the ancient laws and customs dictates. I have worshipped you truly and wholesale," said the slavedriver.

At this, high Hashut snorted, and a storm cloud of ash and cinders swallowed the slavedriver and scorched his soul.

"You have served me in word and ritual, but served me falsely. Your thoughts and deeds condemns you," spoke the Bull God.

"No!" said the slavedriver.

"You dare object to your Dark God's judgement? Fool! You were too weak of heart to crush the slaves under heel. You thought to spare the rod, whip and blade and leave the backs and bones of thralls unscathed, because you skimped with your property and would not wear it out. You thought that nurtured slaves who were not overburdened would live longer and work harder. And you were wrong. For these sins, I let the slaves rise up against you and deal out your worldly punishment, and now I will lay upon you the final judgement," spoke the Bull God.

He then called forth three chained and broken Daemons of fire and darkness, who were charged to forever flay the slavedriver's soul, then maim it and then drown it in molten lead in a cycle without ending. For such is the fate of masters too weak or miserly to suppress their slaves.

- The Slavedriver and the Bull God, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund

Once upon a time, there was a chain whip, a pair of leg irons, a branding iron and a sledgehammer laid upon a workbench. One day, they were boasting to each other:

"My lash tears flesh and rips apart skin yet rarely kills. I instil fear and obedience and may force the starved and exhausted thrall back to his feet to work like never before until he drops dead in his labour. My scars can be found on the back of every slave. I flog you and I flay you. Truly, I am the item behind a succesful slave workforce," said the chain whip.

"My grip is unyielding on flesh and halts the runner in his tracks. I bind your ankles against your will and may fetter you to stones or other thralls so that you cannot escape. My rusty bite can be found corroding into the flesh of every slave. I arrest you and I halt you. Truly, I am the item behind a succesful slave workforce," said the leg irons.

"My heat broils flesh and leave wounds that cannot truly heal. I mark you as property without freedom and may damn you to a thrall's short life of hardship and misery and backbreaking toil. My burns can be found on the flesh of every slave. I scorch you and I enslave you. Truly, I am the item behind a succesful slave workforce," said the branding iron.

"Yet what about you, sledgehammer? Aren't you good only for cracking fingers so that thralls cannot work properly?" asked the other items when they had finished their boasting.

The sledgehammer was silent at first. Then it spoke:

"My weight is my strength and beats anything into submission. I reshape you at will and may crush anything and anyone. My fearsome blows can be found upon the metal of every chain whip, every pair of leg shackles and every branding iron in existence. Without me, you are nothing. For I can make you, and I can break you," said the sledgehammer.

The other items did not reply at this since they knew their powers of subjugation had lost out to the powers of crafting. For such is the might of the blacksmith and his tools, that everything forged by them owes their allegiance to their maker.

- The Items of Subjugation, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* This fable reflects the deeply ingrained Chaos Dwarf belief in the power and mastery of he who creates, he who builds, he who crafts. Owing to their Dwarfen nature, the Dawi Zharr value craftsmanship above most other things in the world. Yet theirs is a twisted nature, and to the Blacksmiths of Chaos, the power to craft is equal to the power to dominate and crush under heel. Indeed, most if not all sorcerous rituals of the Dawi Zharr are centered around forging and crafting, and amongst the Chaos Dwarfs there is an abundance of superstitious charms and hexes to curse or control others that revolves around the very tools by which the possessions of another were crafted. Some of these convoluted sorceries have even had practical and horrendous effects, which not a few mortal Chaos Warlords have found out to their cost after double-crossing their Chaos Dwarf allies or trade partners, or simply because they fell victims to capricious Dawi Zharr cruelty.

Once upon a time, there was a tanner who was unobservant of the decrees of his Sorcerer-Prophet liege. It had been dictated that waste from holy creatures such as a Tauruses or Bull Centaurs could not be used to lime and bate hides from lowly slaves and mere beasts. Yet still the tanner did not take heed of this decree.

One day, the tanner received an abundant shipment of waste from the Temple's Bull Centaur stables, yet had no valuable hides to cure with this valuable stuff. The impious tanner figured that no one would find out, and proceeded to lime lowly Orc hides by soaking them in Bull Centaur urine, and then bated lowly Orc Hides with Bull Centaur dung. The bating was done by pounding the dung into the skin to soften the hide.

High Hashut took notice of this transgression of holy law as ordained by His Sorcerer-Prophet, and punished the tanner by invigorating the Orc hides with strength and malignant purpose. The skins then rose in unison, wrestled the impious tanner to the ground and slowly limed and bated him to death with the defiled Bull Centaur waste. Some time afterward, a leatherworker received a shipment of leather from the tannery. In amongst the stacks of green Orc leather, he found the hide of the deceased tanner. For such is the fate of those who would break against the sacred proscriptions of their profession.

- The Impious Tanner, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund

Once upon a time, there was a lowly potter who thought that the crafting of mere household pottery was beneath the dignity of Chaos Dwarfs. One day, he sought to rectify this by teaching slaves the craft of pottery.

First, the potter brought in an Orcish thrall whom he tried to teach his craft. The Orc was clumsy and worthless, and he could not fathom how to throw pots on a wheel. At last, the slaveOrc managed to pinch and coil some rudimentary pots without handles, which were fired in a kiln. Yet when the Orc was ordered to empty the still-hot kiln for the next load of pots, the stupidslave burnt his hands on the earthware. The Orc smashed all the ceramics to pieces out of dumb, animal rage.

In wrath, the potter maimed and cursed all the limbs of the Orc and put every piece of the slave's body in large pots which he fired in the kiln, broiling the Orc alive.

Next, the potter brought in a Goblin thrall whom he tried to teach his craft. The Goblin was nimble but spiteful, for the slave pinched hidden holes in the bottom of the crude amphoras which he threw on the potter's wheel. The ceramic vessels were fired in the kiln, and sold to a brewery. Yet when the brewer discovered his precious liquids to leak out of the faulty pots, he took the potter to court in front of His mighty idols and their Sorcerer-Prophetoverlord, and was duly compensated.

In wrath, the potter bound up all the limbs of the Goblin in a tight and painful package on the slave's back, and then cursed and threw the helpless mite into a delicatessen pit of Snotlings who had gone rabid out of starvation.

At last, the potter brought in a Hobgoblin thrall whom he tried to teach his craft. The Hobgoblin was dexterous and skilled at handicraft for being but a Greenskin, and the slave managed to both throw and fire passable household earthware. The potter found no hidden holes in the pots, and ordered the Hobgoblin to carry the ceramic vessels to his customers. The slave did so, but deviously sprinkled small, rusty iron spikes into the empty pots that were to be used for food storage. Weeks and months later, the mouths, throats and guts of several Chaos Dwarfs were rent bloody by the swallowed metal spikes, and dozens of slaves died out of infections and haemorrhage as the spikes tore them apart from inside and left festering wounds. The potter was nearly ruined as he paid off enraged customers.

In wrath, the potter cursed and flayed the vile slave and nailed the Hobgoblin to a brick wall with his hammer. This time, however, the potter brought in new Hobgoblin thralls whom he would try to teach his craft. He had discovered that Hobgoblins could manage pottery, and now he would set an example to his new slaves in order to keep them away from future mischief. The Hobgoblin villain on the wall shrieked and wailed as fully twelve times twelve cursed iron nails were hammered through his body in sight of his gleeful kinsmen.

For such is the fate of the failing slave. A master may experience the setbacks of trial and error and live without harm should the Father of Darkness and His dread court of shackled Daemons allow it. Yet the slave may not, for he is the weak and immoral scum of the earth and must be dealt with accordingly.

- The Potter's Slaves, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* To this day, most ceramic vessels for everyday use in the Chaos Dwarf empire are made by Human and Hobgoblin slaves in vast manufactories, assisted by other slaves such as Goblins and Gnoblars who act as porters and carry out various forms of unskilled labour. Hobgoblins possess greater ability for the crafts than do other Greenskins (as is evident in their dress and equipment), yet because of their treacherous nature they regularly experience unspeakable cruelty at the hands of Chaos Dwarf overseers whenever a fault or lethal prank is discovered.

Once upon a time, there was a bodyguard who served his revered Sorcerer-Prophet every waking hour of life. One day, the Sorcerer-Prophet was travelling with his entourage through the wilderness, when a mob of Goblin slingers ambushed them. Hesitating out of fear of death, the bodyguard raised his shield to protect himself, yet did not step forward at once to cover his liege from the barrage of stone and lead clumps. The Sorcerer-Prophet survived unscathed, yet his bodyguard was mortally wounded by several slingshots. The bodyguard lay dying.

"Strip him of arms and armour, then tie his body behind one of the oxen and let it drag on the ground. When we get back, we will throw it into the River Ruin without funerary rites," said the Sorcerer-Prophet.

"But my lord, I have served you my whole life! Would you deny me my afterlife by drowning my corpse?" asked the bodyguard.

"Yes I would. When you failed to shield me at once with your own body, your fate was forfeit. What use is there for lessers who would not sacrifice themselves for their betters within a heartbeat? To hell with you!" replied the Sorcerer-Prophet. For such is the fate of those whose fear and doubt would hinder them to serve their masters completely.

- The Bodyguard and the Sorcerer-Prophet, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund

Once upon a time, there was a man who lived all his life with a certainty of impending doom. He was even negligent of portents and hidden signs from Dark Gods and Daemons alike which contradicted his fears of death around the corner, and for this he was called the doomsayer. Whenever he travelled somewhere, the doomsayer went alone, for no armed caravan would have him and his gloom in its midst.

One day, the doomsayer was out prospecting in the wilderness, when he spotted a group of feral Goblins just in time to hide from them. To get past the vile Greenskins, the doomsayer had to sneak through a small gorge. He crept silently through it and even took off his hat, Hashut forbid, to avoid detection.

However, in the middle of the gorge, the Bull God struck the doomsayer with despair:

"They'll be over me any moment now. This is the end! I'm sure the Goblins can hear me," keened the doomsayer.

And so they did, for they heard his voice.

"I knew it!" yelled the doomsayer, before the feral Goblins ripped open his arms, split his bones and ate his marrow in front of the doomsayer's own eyes. For such is the fate of those who would dare to make predictions of doom not based upon the omens and prophecies of high Hashut and Chaos.

- The Doomsayer and the Feral Goblins, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund

Once upon a time, there was a coppersmith who cut and riveted copper plates to roof beams. His handiwork was fine, yet his judgement was flawed, and he was seldom careful or exact with what he said. His hands worked instead of his mind, so his tongue waggled unchecked, hither and thither, telling false and wrong were his hands made true and strong. Thus people who knew him well found his words hard to rely on, yet new customers were seldom warned by others of his flaw.

One day, the coppersmith were repairing the corroded roof of an old slave barrack. It was late in the evening, yet he had his trusty oil lamp to give a ruddy light. He worked deftly at loosening old plates.

"Is the cracked plate replaced now?" called out the owner of the slave barrack.

"It sure is already!" called back the malarkey coppersmith, when it fact it wasn't, but he was soon at the cracked plate and was sure to have it fixed in no time and saw no reason to answer with a measly "not yet", for surely no one would come up and check before it was finished?

Yet up came the client all of a sudden. He climbed up in the darkness, stomping on the new copper plates to inspect the results and taking some delight in instilling some fear of the Thunderbull in his shackled slaves below the roof.

"This is solid craftsmanship!" exclaimed the slave barrack owner and approached the roofer without even seeing where he put his feet.

"Solid as can be," replied the coppersmith absentmindedly, all attention on his work at hand and all else forgotten.

"Splendid! Now this roof can take the burden of a Bull Centaur!" said the slave barrack owner happily and stomped out onto the cracked copper plate, which broke in two and sent him howling into the slave cell below, where eight shackled Savage Orcs ripped him to pieces and devoured him alive. And for his lethal lies the malarkey coppersmith roofer was hunted down by the client's clan and had molten copper poured down his throat, for such is the fate of those who would take out victory in advance.

- The Malarkey Coppersmith Roofer, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*

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* This fable also have other lessons to learn, namely to always watch where you put your feet and never trust fully in the words of others.

Once upon a time there was a slave owner who saw his thralls simply as workforce and nothing more. They were to be bought, and replaced upon backbreaking death just like a lifeless tool, yet still he allowed them a life of sorts. They were to be fed, clothed and forced and hurt, but to this slave owner the savage minds and barbarous talk of his slaves were of no consequence, and beneath his dignity to concern himself with. He was indeed a negligent man, for only those righteous in the eyes of the Father of Darkness know and act upon the need to utterly crush the will and inner worth of the slaves to keep them in line. So careless was this slave owner, that he did not realize that he, and he alone must reduce his property to truly lifeless tools.

One day, a new taskmaster was hired by the slave owner. Even though the taskmaster was a man of lowly birth and meagre skills, his simple wits still grasped the workings of slavedriving better than his superior did. Yet he did not carry out his duties bereft of doubt as ordained in unholy scripture, but immediately turned to his employer for directions even in trifling matters.

”Master, the newly bought Gnoblars have started flinging their own filth at each other. They find spiteful mirth therein, which is a sign of a free and willful life of heart that cannot be allowed to persist. Shall I let sew shut the behinds of some and flog others to put the fear of the Bull God in them?” asked the new taskmaster.

”No. As long as they work we shall not concern ourselves with the doings of the scum,” answered the negligent slave owner.

”Master, the Goblins' chatter has vexed the Orcs. The waggling of tongues goes hither and thither, casting curses upon fellow slaves and who knows even ourselves? They find spiteful refuge therein, which is a sign of a free and willful life of heart that cannot be allowed to persist. Shall I cut out the tongues of some and flay others to put the fear of the Bull God in them?” asked the new taskmaster.

”No. As long as they work we shall not concern ourselves with the doings of the scum,” answered the negligent slave owner.

The day after that, the taskmaster once again sought out the slave owner:

”Master, the Orcs have started to chant to their foreign gods, stomping and grunting and spitting. They arouse each other, and their crude singing is turning into wordless shouts. They find unruly pride therein. Shall I rip the jaws off from some and maim others to put the fear of the Bull God in them?” asked the new taskmaster.

”No. As long as they work we shall not concern ourselves with the doings of the scum,” answered the negligent slave owner.

Next day, the taskmaster did not seek out the slave owner, and the slave owner did not decline to give the command to quench the spirit of the slaves akin to how one almost quench life in a torture victim by keeping it submerged in foul water until almost dead. For this day, they were both dead from the night's slave uprising, the one fallen for his idiotic negligence, the other for his spineless doubt. And indeed the free Greenskins ate the negligent slave owner and taskmaster while still alive and conscious, though badly wounded, and the cackling and jeering of savages was the last thing the fools heard as life left them at the fangs and tusks of their own Greenskin slaves. For such is the fate of those who would not know their toil for its true nature.

- The Negligent Slave Owner and the New Taskmaster, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund

"There once was a mighty sword. In its time it served its masters well, never growing dull and slaying many foes. From father to son it was passed down through many generations until after many years being wielded by its eighth lord in a mighty duel it shattered along the blade. Weaponless, the overlord was forced to take refuge behind his shield, but a mighty blow cleft it in twain and the overlord's head was struck from his exposed neck. The lord's son, it's ninth master gathered up the shards and handed them to his clan's Daemonsmith, who took them to his forge. He set aside the shield halves and cast the sword shards into a crucible."Ha," sneered the shield, "See how I am set aside to be tended while you are cast away to be burned. Mayhaps you'll be reforged into shackles for snotlings.""Nay," replied the shards, "I did my duty. All things must die eventually and I lasted eight generations. 'Twas not my fault our master lays slain, that is because of your failing.""But it is not I who has been cast into the fire," scoffed the shield."Only because your wood cannot be reforged," chuckled the shards, "Your boss shall be stripped and bolted to new boards, but that shall not be you anymore. I on the other hand shall be recast into a new body; my form may be changed, but I shall still be me, for I have been reforged before. All things must die shield, even the world around us, but only the worthy may rise from the flames."At this the shield grew quiet and fearful, knowing the shards spoke the truth, even as they melted. And as the shards foresaw, the smith returned to the forge and hammered them into a new blade, while the shield was stripped of its boss and the rest discarded. So to shall the weak and unworthy be discarded in the End Times and only the strong shall emerge from the flames, hammered and tempered by the will of the gods into new forms for a new world, but at their heart still the same as they have always been, for as this has all happened before, so too shall it happen again.- Fable from the Apocrypha Uhr-Kulmbizharr, a collection of writings attributed to the renowned Uhr-Kulmbizharr, but believed by all right minded scholars to instead be the work of a lesser author using the Daemonsmith's name to try and spread his lesser works.

Once upon a time there was a Dawi warrior known for his great piety. Long was his beard and tall was his hat, for on the battlefield he was possessed of a uncanny fortune. The Goblin bow was no sooner bent against him than it would snap. The boars of the Orcs were spurred towards him only to balk and run wild throwing the Grobi lines into disorder. Such was his favor in the eyes of Hashut that the warriors of his Throng would scarily dare cross a river or deep gorge less he had first done so in safety.

One day while pouring over his horde of gold and gem encrusted articles he stroked his beard, oiled with the finest unguents, and was struck with a thought.

"Surely above all my peers High Hashut has favored me, for in fortune of war and commerce I have no equal. But have I not seen priests of the temple on whom all manner of misfortune has befallen in this or that way? How should it be that I need my offerings mediated to the great Father of Darkness by those on whom his favor rests more lightly?"

With this in his heart the Dawi took gold and oxen and journeyed to the Temple of Hashut to make sacrifice as was his custom. Upon gaining the temple steps he brushed the acolytes aside and stood himself on the dais of the great alter.

"Look on me you novices, for I am blessed by the God, blessed as any sacred Taurus or Prophet, and more than most! Surely at the bud of my manhood it was by mistake that I was made a mere warrior rather than sent to stand where I now do!"

So saying he cut the throat of his first prize bull and, having memorized the words of the priests from lingering long in the temple halls, he intoned the sacred words of sacrifice.

No sooner had he begun the droning litany than the eyes of the great statue of Hashut above the alter gleamed. Sulfurous flames shot from its mouth and nostrils consuming the ox, the gold and the arrogant warrior all at once.

Having observed the proceedings from further within the temple a sage and lordly Sorcerer-Prophet stepped forth and spake unto the astonished acolytes:

"The favor of Hashut is given in measure to those who fulfill the duty's of their station, woe to those who twist his approval into ambitions of ascendance!"

- The Pious Warrior, by Sorcerer-Prophet Utnipishzim the Proselytizer, venerable instructor during the ordaining of the second priesthood.*

_____________________________________* A parable meant to illustrate the distinction between the blessings of class and the blessings of merit. While the Dawi Zharr have a place for ambition in advancing within ones predetermined sphere, it has never been acceptable to attempt a graduation from ones fundamental class. Additionally there are few greater sins than to covet the priesthood. To do so is to blaspheme against Hashut._____________________________________

Once upon a time, there was a mighty Ogre Tyrant who lorded it over his mountain valley. One day, one of his females bore him a son. The boy was rotund and large for a newborn. Glad for this good omen, the father took his son to the Butcher.

"Here. See his future and tell me what you see," said the Ogre Tyrant.

The Butcher bit an unsuspecting Gnoblar slave in half and read its spilt innards.

"The guts have spoken! The Bull Calf will become strong and brawny. He will beat his foe in the maw pit, and he will become even stronger than his father. One day he will challenge you for the right to lead the tribe. He is a son to be proud of," divined the Butcher.

Then the Ogre Tyrant seized his son and devoured the Bull Calf. The Butcher was astonished.

"Why did you eat him?" asked the Butcher.

"One day when he had become older, he would have been stronger than me. He would have challenged me," said the Ogre Tyrant.

"Yes, but it was not foretold who would win," said the Butcher.

"Perhaps I could have defeated him when he was a fully grown Bull, but why take the risk? I certainly could defeat him as a newborn. Now I have already won," explained the Ogre Tyrant, and burped loudly. For to nip a threat in its bud is to safeguard your future the easy way.

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* This story is merely a slightly refined version of an actual Ogre fable. Though recently published by Zhargonidus, the moral of the fable resounds with Dawi Zharr stratagems throughout the millennia, which have aimed at crushing any potential threat amongst Greenskin leaders in particular. Cut off the head, and the snake will die.

Once upon a time, there was a host with a couple of Iron Daemons. Mighty were their barrage and thunderous were their charge. One day, the army came upon a host of Humans from Ind. The Chaos Dwarfs drew up their battlelines, yet the terrain on the battlefield was rocky and difficult to tread on. Nevertheless, the warmachines were ordered to plow through the enemy ranks and crush all before them. Steam hissed and smoke belched, pistons pumped and wheels trundled.

As they neared the Indans at high speed, the leader of the first Iron Daemon decided to be cautious:

"Slow down, or else we will roll over! We're shaking too much already," said the leader of the first Iron Daemon.

This mistake cost his crew their lives. Though they crashed into the puny Humans and killed many of them, their momentum was too slow to escape their enemies' vengeance. Swift warriors jumped their vehicle and cut the crew to pieces.

When the second Iron Daemon neared the Indans at high speed, one of the crewmen warned his leader:

"On the brakes, we're going too fast and will topple on that rock!" shouted the crewman.

"No! Trust in Hashut and shovel more coal into the furnace. Brakes are for Elves!" yelled the leader of the second Iron Daemon.

The Iron Daemon sped up, and nearly crashed down on its side as it hit a rock. Yet the Father of Darkness protected the faithful, and let the vehicle regain its stability. Thus it was that the Iron Daemon slaughtered all before it with impunity, and the Humans fled before its wrath. For such is the glory due to the conqueror bereft of doubt and hesitation.

- The Two Iron Daemons, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

Once upon a time, there was a Hobgoblin river slave towing his vessel after his Chaos Dwarf master's steam barge upon the River Ruin. Though the Hobgoblin's vessel was but a reed boat caulked with bitumen, he was still eager to surpass his peers. One day, the Hobgoblin river slave passed by a big raft of wood and inflated animal hides. The Hobgoblins aboard it jeered at him since they could load so much more than the river slave could in his reed boat. At this, the Hobgoblin river slave drew his knives to stab the taunters, yet he could not reach the others since he did not know how to swim.

The river slave's master moored his steam barge by the dock of a quarry to load his vessel with fresh cargo. At this, the Hobgoblin river slave kicked some Goblinslaves into loading his reed boat with much more stones than was usual.

The boat bulged and lay low in the filthy water line when the barge steamed upriver again. Soon, the steam barge and its towed reed boat passed by the slower, inflated hide raft.

"Look at all my cargo, you maggots!" jeered the Hobgoblin river slave to the crew on the raft.

At this, the wrath of the Hobgoblin river slave was kindled, and he threw a knife right into one of the inflated cattle hides of the raft. It quickly deflated and destabilized the vessel, pulling both Hobgoblins and cargo under water. At the sight of this, the Hobgoblin river slave could do nothing but laugh like a maniac, rocking his boat. But when he did so, the overloaded reed boat tipped into the River Ruin, and water gushed into it. The reed boat sank.

"Help! I'll drown! Help!" shrieked the Hobgoblin river slave moments before he sank.

But the Chaos Dwarf master fished up his worthless slave with a ship's pike.

"How polite of you to thank me for your death," snarked the Chaos Dwarf master, and shredded the Hobgoblin river slave alive on the propeller of the steam barge. For such is the fate of those who would overburden their vessels, and destroy their master's property.

- The Reed Boat and the Inflated Hide Raft, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time